Vagabonding in Europe: Un Americano a Milano
The Piazza Mercanti in Milano. On the right, the loggia steps referred to in this essay. (Photo by Jakub Hałun)
We all know the pitfalls of social media – the reduction of every meaningful experience to a shareable post, the obsession with other people’s status and our own competitive urge to impress, the unholy merger of envy, anxiety, and distraction. How often have we responded to a beautiful moment by whipping out our phones to document it, calculating how much it will boost our status, and in the process ceasing to be in that moment? But occasionally, social media can rise to all its promise of connectivity across space and time.
Three days ago, I opened a “message request” on Facebook. It was from Luca Garofalo, who was not a Facebook Friend: “hello, are you the David who traveled to Milano Italy 40+ years ago?” I straightaway responded, “Ciao, Luca! Yes, your family generously hosted me for a few days, and you let me hang with you & your friends. A sweet memory.”
And it was. My path intersected with Luca and his family amid four months of wandering the European continent in the summer of 1981, what would prove to be my last big hitchhiking trip. After earning my Bachelor of General Studies degree that May, nine years after graduating from high school, I had persuaded my folks to give me a graduation present (partly by reminding them I’d paid my own way through college) – a round-trip ticket from New York to Brussels with an open return date. I had saved up $700 and planned to travel as long as it would carry me.
On June 29, my one-person Army surplus tent was pitched in a campground near the Piazzale Michelangelo, just across the Fiume Arno and outside the old city walls of Firenze.[1] I had been there for three days, enjoying the art, architecture, and history of that beautiful Tuscan city. I was tempted by the sunny morning to stay another day, but I decided to pack up and move on. My campground neighbors, a friendly Brit couple, asked me where I was off to. When they learned I was planning to hitchhike to Milano, they told me they’d be passing by there and offered me a lift. Such good sports – he a prep school Latin and Greek teacher, she a chatty librarian. We loaded up their VW van and headed north toward Bologna, through the lush green hill country of Tuscany and out onto the open plains of Emilia-Romagna’s Po River valley, and then northwest through the auto manufacturing city of Modena and the cultural and gastronomic center of Parma.
A week earlier, while hitching along the Italian Riviera, I had met Raffaele, who gave me a ride from San Remo to Genova and, when we stopped for lunch, invited me to crash at his apartment if I came to Milano. I was about to take him up on that offer. My British friends dropped me off five kilometers outside of the city, so I decided to hike along the shoulder of the autostrada until I could catch a bus going downtown. But before long and unexpectedly, a car stopped, a woman and her two young adult sons. The mother, Giulia, drove me into the city and to her home, inviting me in for an espresso and conversation.
Her 22-year-old son, Luca, had just completed his obbligatorio (year of compulsory military service) and was enjoying his newly reclaimed freedom. About to head out to do errands, he offered to accompany me downtown. We caught a bus, and Luca helped me find the tourist office so I could pick up a city street map and work out directions to Raffaele’s home. Before we parted, Luca shared his phone number, suggesting we meet up again.
I tried reaching Raffaele by phone but, upon learning there was a Dire Straits concert in Milano that night, concluded that’s where he would be. Should I call Luca and ask to stay there? Should I spend the night in a pensione? I chose instead to locate Raffaele’s place and wait. When I finally knocked on the door of his apartment, a neighbor told me he was in the hospital. Che peccato![2] I tried calling Luca, but it was late, and I wound up leaving a short incoherent message with his father. I decided to do some impromptu urban camping, sleeping comfortably nel prato tra la ferrovia e l’autostrada.[3]
The next morning, I called again, spoke with Luca, and asked if I could stay with his family for a few days. We made plans to meet later that day. To stay with una famiglia italiana was an honor. In my years of traveling, I’d learned this truth, which applies in any language and place. Ennio, il padre, worked in the largest commercial bank in Milano. Giulia was a warm, vivacious, and intelligent woman who spoke fluent English. She showed me to her studio, where I would be able to stow my backpack and sleep. Its double French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking their garden. Luca was an excellent folk guitarist, in the style of John Fahey and Jorma Kaukonen. The rest of the household consisted of his three younger siblings – Isabella, Nicoletta, and Paolo– all in their late teens or early twenties.
During the day, Luca and I bicycled around the city as he showed me the sights. We visited Santa Maria delle Grazie to see da Vinci’s remarkable fresco The Last Supper, painted on a wall of the monastery’s dining hall. When Luca visited a friend to give a guitar lesson, I tagged along. Afterward, as we smoked a bowl of hash, I pulled out my cassette tape of the Iowa City band I played in, Pink Gravy, and we listened to a few songs. Another afternoon, Luca and I met up with a friend who fronted a punk band, her hair dyed a stunning crimson, and went to her flat to listen to Italian new wave bands Decibel and Krisma. That evening we ate, drank, and conversed with a big group of friends at a trattoria and bar that specialized in la musica folklorista.
It was a pleasure da mangiare all’italiana con la famiglia Garofalo.[4] One night was special – the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, Paolo’s feast day. First, spaghetti al pomodoro, then bistecca alla milanese, followed by a plate of salame piccante, thin slices of pecorino, and arugula, tutti in olio d’oliva,[5] capped off by a transcendent dessert of gooseberries and raspberries in whipped cream atop a shortcake. Il miglior vino, e certo, molto parlando e apprendendo l’italiano.[6]
My last night in Milano, Luca and I went to a concert in the Piazza del Duomo, the city’s main square. The music was not memorable, but to hear live music in front of a stunning fourteenth-century Gothic cathedral, its tall white marble spires and pinnacles spotlit and ghostly against the night sky – that was memorable. The scene was crazy crowded, so a group of us wandered off to a quieter spot nearby. In the Piazza Mercanti, the square of merchants, emblematic of the city’s position as a financial center, we were surrounded by beautiful palazzi, some dating back to the thirteenth century. It seemed somehow right to sit on the steps of a loggia and roll spliffs of tobacco mixed with hash and get molto sconvolto.[7]
A tanned, wiry-haired guy carrying an artist notebook under his arm walked by, then stopped to ask if we wanted a caricatura. —No. He was insistent, looking each of us in the eye. “Per un caffè?” —Still, no. Willfully disregarding our wishes, he crouched down, pulled out a sheet of paper and a charcoal crayon, looked at Luca’s friend Renata, la ragazza più bella del nostro gruppo,[8] and began to sketch her. I grudgingly acknowledged his dogged intensity, his swaggering braggadocio. The drawing was not remarkable, but when he again asked for coffee money, we all dug deep for spare 100-lire coins. It was his style, not his artistic skill, we were paying for. After sitting with us for a while and sharing stories, he looked at me and asked, “You speak English, yes?” I nodded my head. “American?” I nodded again. “You don’t look at all like an American.” I took this comment as the highest of compliments.[9] Then he strolled off, forse per un caffè, ma non lo so.[10]
I haven’t yet heard back from Luca. But if I never do, knowing he reached out, knowing a connection persists that we made over a few summer days forty years ago in Milano, that’s enough for me.
Footnotes:
[1] In my last year of school, I studied Italian, a lovely language. As it did in my travel journal, some Italian will creep into this essay. And it feels right to use Italian for Italian places such as the Arno River and Florence.
[2] What a shame!
[3] In an empty field between some railroad tracks and the highway.
[4] To eat in the Italian style with the Garofalo family.
[5] Spaghetti in tomato sauce … breaded and fried steak cutlets … spicy salami … pecorino cheese … all in olive oil.
[6] The best wine, and of course, a lot of speaking and learning Italian.
[7] Literally, very shattered.
[8] The most beautiful of the women in our group.
[9] I was in one of the hate phases of my love-hate relationship with the land of my birth, ashamed we had elected Ronald Reagan as our president the previous year. His “trickle-down” Reaganomics policy would prove to be both ineffective and deceitfully mean-spirited.
[10] Perhaps for a coffee, but I don’t know.